


Truth and Dare

by Colette_Capricious



Series: Games People Play [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Impala Sex, M/M, Season/Series 02, blow jobs for everyone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 07:29:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colette_Capricious/pseuds/Colette_Capricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam haven’t fucked around much since that first night with the whole spin the bottle thing. Sam had reached for him one drunken night and they’d managed a quick rub off, and there had been some awesome but quick almost fully-clothed hand jobs. But nothing close to that night. Nothing at all since Madison, and he can’t quite figure out how to get his little brother naked and horizontal again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth and Dare

“Six bucks for a milkshake?” Eyes wide, Dean looks up at the Lucille Ball-look alike in the faux 50s waitress outfit. Her nametag reads LaVerne but it’s probably about as real as her hair color.

LaVerne blows a bubble with her well-chewed gum, sucks it back whole between her candy-apply red lips, and bites down, popping it. “First time in LA?” She pats his arm consolingly, draws it back slowly, fingers dragging slightly down the leather. Dean gives her a half-force smile, panty-dampening but not panty-dropping. Sam snorts a laugh and Dean shoots him a look, but Sam seems engrossed in the song selection on the tabletop jukebox. 

“First time getting robbed,” Dean mutters into the menu. LaVerne sighs impatiently.

Sam drops several quarters into the jukebox, turns to the waitress, dimples flashing. “I’ll take a banana shake and the roast chicken and veggie plate. Extra gravy.”

“Sure thing, honey.” She smacks Dean with the order pad. “And for you, Mr. Grumpy Pants?”

Dean kicks Sam under the table, knowing without looking that his brother is laughing silently at him. Nothing makes Sam happier than a woman who can resist the Dean Winchester charm.

Sam answers for him. “He’ll have the cheeseburger plate, medium, and a …?” Now it’s Sam’s turn to kick Dean. 

Dean scowls across the table. “Butterscotch.”

“Butterscotch shake.” LaVerne pops her gum again as she collects the menus and saunters away from the booth.

“Hey,” Dean calls out after her. “What if I want dessert?”

“A milkshake is dessert,” Sam pronounces as he pushes more buttons. Click, click, click. Sam makes a selection.

_Here’s my story, it’s sad but true. About a girl that I once knew. She took my heart and ran around With every other boy in town._

Dean shifts on the red vinyl bench until his back is against the wall, right leg bent up onto the seat. He’s tapping along on the seat, singing along with Dion under his breath. Sam scans the free newspaper he’d grabbed on the way in.

“Anything?”

Sam shakes his head, goes back to the paper. Dean watches Sam out of the corner of his eye while he pretends to be checking out the crowd. To anyone else, Sam would look perfectly calm, peaceful. Dean’s not buying it. Sam had been moodily quiet since they’d left the lot. Not a full-on teenage sulk, more a low-level irritation that he seemed to fighting. And losing, if Dean was any judge. Which he was. Sam’s face was Dean’s native tongue and Dean’s face was Sam’s. Their lives had depended on that fluency over and over. So it worried Dean on a primal level when he couldn’t break the code.  
Dean clicks at the tray on the metal straw dispenser, one, two, three, four straws. Sam’s large hand slaps down over his as he goes for five. “Dean.”

Dean is all innocence. “What? Bruce in catering said the milkshakes here were to die for. Worth the drive. I just want to be prepared.”

“I think one straw apiece will suffice.” Sam folds the newspaper up as LaVerne walks down the aisle carrying a tray with two tall glasses filled with milkshake and two metal mixing cups, condensation rolling down their side.

Dean slides his foot off the bench until he’s facing Sam. “Ooh, suffice. I like when you use big words, gets me all hot.” Sam’s eyes narrow.

LaVerne gives them each a shake and a tumbler with the extra that didn’t fit in the glass. “Banana for you,” she sets one down in front of Sam. “Butterscotch for the boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Sam’s reply is quick. It’s true, of course, but for some reason it still rankles Dean. So he’s good enough to screw around with, but not good enough for a boyfriend? And how fucked up is that thought? Dean stabs three straws into his milkshake. 

LaVerne eyes Dean up and down. “No? Good to know.” She smiles at Sam. “Food’ll be out in about five. Enjoy.”

The Righteous Brothers start singing about losing that loving feeling as Dean gets his first sip of shake. “Oh, yeah, that’s the stuff,” he moans around the three straws. He takes another long sip, eyes closed. He opens them to Sam’s smirk.

“Do you want me to leave you two alone?” Sam asks, but Dean can’t help but noticed that Sam is sucking on his straw pretty hard, too. There’s something mesmerizing about the way Sam’s pink lips are wrapped around that straw. Dean licks some butterscotch off his lips. A flash of sense memory – Sam on his knees, looking up through a curtain of hair, Sam’s lips wide around his cock - and a tickle of lust start low in his belly. Dean doesn’t answer, just tilts his glass a little towards him, swirls all three straws around in the bottom of the glass, and carefully pulls out a thick mouthful of vanilla ice cream laced with butterscotch syrup. He can see Sam’s eyes tracking his hand as he raises the straws and lets the ice cream drip into his open mouth. He makes sure Sam is looking at him and then licks and sucks the straws clean before slipping them back into his glass. “The best stuff is always at the bottom.” There are splashes of color high on Sam’s cheeks and his nostril flare just a bit. Dean digs back into the bottom of his glass, scoops up some more, and holds it out to his brother. “Want a taste?”

Sam leans forward, mouth open, eyes locked on Dean. 

“That’s what the spoon is for, honey.” They both start slightly – hunters don’t startle - as LaVerne sets down a tray on the end of their table. Sam leans back, lifting his arms up to make an empty space as she slides his plate in front of him. 

“Shit,” Dean curses as the ice cream slides down the straw onto the table.

“Language,” LaVerne scolds, putting Dean’s burger down. She puts her hands on her hips, at looks between the boys. “So? Liking the shakes? Best in the Valley.”

They both nod. “They’re excellent, ma’am.” Sam adds. 

She smiles at him. Dean thinks she’s one second away from pinching his cheek. “Such a polite young man. You I like.” She turns and glares at Dean but see her trying to hold back a small smile. She’s younger than Dean had thought at first. “You, on the other hand…” She waggles a finger at Dean, walking backwards away from the table. “Mind your manners.”

“What are you, my mother?” Dean calls down the aisle to her. When she waggles her eyebrows and flips him the double bird, he burst out laughing and shakes his head. She mouths something he can’t understand, and he gave her the head tilt, eyebrows drawn together look. _Kiss him_ , she mouths again, slowly, jerking her head at Sam just in case Dean could possibly think she means some other him. 

Sam cranes his head around to see what Dean is looking at but LaVerne has already turned away. He turns back to see Dean chuckling and shaking his head a little. “What?” He looks back and forth between LaVerne’s retreating back and Dean’s face. “What?”

“Nothing,” Dean says, still smiling. He jerks his chin at Sam’s shake. “So how is it? Good?”

“Yeah, it’s really good. Fresh banana.” Sam tilts his cup towards Dean. “Want a taste?” His voice is a little deeper, and he sinks just a little lower in the booth, legs stretching out to bracket Dean’s under the table.

 _Hell yeah_ , Dean wants a taste. He and Sam haven’t fucked around much since that first night with the whole spin the bottle thing. Sam had reached for him one drunken night and they’d managed a quick rub off, and there had been some awesome but quick almost fully-clothed hand jobs. But nothing close to that night. Nothing at all since Madison, and he can’t quite figure out how to get his little brother naked and horizontal again. That’s the only reason he’d gone with Tara. He was horny and he’d jerked off to a mental picture of Tara more than once. Tara was on the list. And Tara was great, fine, sweet girl. But. Well. Dean replays the well-worn memory of Sam coming so spectacularly that first time, the look on his face, the feel of his skin against Dean’s cock. He could lose himself in Sam and Dean knows he wants more than a taste. 

Sam rattles the cup, eyebrows raised. “Yes?”

Dean grabs Sam’s wrist and drags his arm forward until the can bend down over the cup. The straw is warm and tastes of Sam and banana shake. Awesome. He lets the straw slip out of his mouth, hand still on top of Sam’s. “Oh, that is good.” He licks his lips like he’s chasing the flavor. Sam slides the straw back between Dean’s lips, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth, eyes dark. Dean takes another deep sip, sucking in his cheeks more than is probably necessary – it really is good, maybe he should get a banana shake to go – then pulls off, pushing the glass back to Sam. “Drink up, Sammy. Milk. It does a body good.”

Sam leaves his legs on either side of Dean’s and starts in on his dinner. Maybe it will be tonight, Dean muses. He’s definitely getting some fuck-me vibes off Sam. He’d though Sam had been pissed when he caught Dean coming out of Tara’s trailer. Guess not. It’s not like Dean was mad about…Dean’s thought skitter away from the whole Madison disaster. He digs deep into the burger, looking to distract himself. They eat in silence for a second, the hum of conversation and clinking silverware and the faint music from someone else’s jukebox filling the silence. Speaking of silence, there is distinct lack of music at their table. Dean holds out a hand across the table. “Give me a quarter.”

“Get your own quarter.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. He knows Sam has change. The kid always has change in his pockets. Saying no to Dean is just like a reflex in Sam and ignoring it is Dean’s reflex. He wiggles his fingers. “The music’s stopped. Quarter.”

Sam sighs, but digs in his pocket and pulls out a quarter, dropping into Dean’s outstretched hand. “Fine. But no crappy songs.”

“You wouldn’t know a crappy song if it crapped on your head.” He’s already pressing the buttons, making the song list rotate, so Sam goes for the kick rather than the eye roll.

“Lame.”

Dean punches in two songs and turns back to his plate. “You’re lame.” Now Sam goes for the eyeroll. 

_Oh, when the sun beats down and burns the tar up on the roof And your shoes get so hot, you wish your tired feet were fireproof Under the boardwalk, down by the sea On a blanket with my baby is where I'll be._

“What do you say, Sam? Spend a few days on the beach? Under the boardwalk?” He waggles his eyebrows.

Sam shakes his head. “I wanna keep going. I need to keep going.”

“C’mon, it will be fun.”

Sam scowls and hacks at his chicken like it’s personally offended him. “No. I don’t want to stay here any longer then we have to.”

Dean sighs as bites into his burger. “Why you gotta be like that, Sammy?” Dean lets the song play out uninterrupted. He’s not giving up, this is just the first volley, sometimes Sam takes a little convincing.

_Lollipop Lollipop Oh Lolli Lolli Lolli Lollipop Lollipop Oh Lolli Lolli Lolli Lollipop Lollipop Oh Lolli Lolli Lolli Lollipop *POP*_

Sam looks up. “God, I haven’t heard this song forever. I used to love this song when I was a kid.”

_Crazy way he thrills-a me Tell you why Just like a lightning from the sky He loves to kiss me 'Till I can't see straight Gee, my Lollipop is great!_

“I know. You always did like to lick the lollipops.” Dean’s voice is caught between a leer and a chuckle and Sam looks at him like he’s a lunatic.

“Did you just make a blow job innuendo?” Dean nods and smiles, pleased that his joke didn’t go unnoticed. “About me or the song?”

“Can’t it be both?” Now Dean does let out the laugh, because Sam looks scandalized, letting his fork and knife lower to the table.

“This song isn’t about –“ he looks around to make sure no one is listening and still leans closer to Dean and whispers, “-blowjobs.”

“Yes it is.”

“No, it’s like –“ he waves his knife around, looking for the right word “-old.”

“You telling me people didn’t get blowjobs in the fifties?” He scoops up some milkshakes with his straws, sliding them deep into the back of his mouth.

“You’re a perv.”

Dean’s laugh is loud and real and completely contagious. He sees a few heads turn towards them, and even Sam can’t hold in his smile though he shakes his head at Dean’s lack of shame.

“Why do you think I taught it to you? And why dad made you stop singing it?”

Sam flicks a pea at him. “You were a perv at twelve.”

“You know it, baby. You love it.” He sucks the dregs of his milkshake through the straws, then burps loudly. Sam frowns and LaVerne, who just happens to be passing the table, smacks him on the back of the head with her order pad. “Bite me,” he tells her. “Save it for the boyfriend,” she suggests, sauntering away.

Sam half turns to her, one arm over the back of the seat, “He’s not my –“

Dean clinks the long spoon against the metal cup, dragging up the last of the shake. “C’mon, Sam. Eat up. Let’s blow this place. We can be at the beach in twenty minutes.”

Sam shovels in some chicken and gravy. “We’re not going to the beach, Dean. We’re going to get some sleep and then hit the road.”

Dean grunts and finished the last bite of his burger. He catches LaVerne’s eye and gestures for the check. He isn’t sulking. Who’d died at made Sam boss anyway? It’s not like he was asking for a week at Disneyland. He deserves it. He’s been cheated out of the swimming pools and movie stars, and they’ve had a reasonably successful salt & burn. Too bad about Walter, but the idiot should not have been playing with shit he didn’t understand. He kinda didn’t blame those ghosts, the dead needed to stay dead. So, all in all, he felt he was owed at least a _little_ time to soak up the City of Angels. One night, maybe two, not too much to ask.

They finish up, pay, and walk out in silence. Dean still can’t get a handle on Sam’s mood. It was up and down so much tonight, Dean can’t tell if he stands a better chance of getting laid or getting punched. He spins the keys to the impala around his finger as they push through the doors of the diner. 

It had gotten dark while they ate, and Ventura Boulevard is a river of red and white lights. Underneath the smell of blacktop and exhaust, the air carries the scent of eucalyptus and night-blooming jasmine. He needs to get up out of this smoggy valley, needs to get some perspective and just try to make sense out of all this crap around Sam. Sam and the Yellow-Eyed Demon. Sam and his Dad. Sam and him. That last part, the freshest part, might just be freaking him out the most. Killing Sam when he goes darkisde? A demon with plans for Sam? He can barely imagine those. The feel of Sam’s dick in his mouth? That he doesn’t need to imagine, he can remember it. And how fucked up was his life?

Dean’s hands itch for the hard plastic curve of the Impala’s steering wheel. He aches to feel the road rumble beneath him, vibrating through his bones for mile upon mile until he still feels it hours after they’ve stopped driving. The shadow of the Hollywood Hills rise up from behind the diner. Multi-colored lights flicker through the trees, hinting of secret places, the abandoned shells of burnt out houses, and multi-balconied homes full of glittering parties. Dean watches the tiny headlights and taillights appear and disappear behind houses and trees as other people’s cars move down the twists of turns Mulholland Boulevard. He has to get up there, drive West, get to the sea.

“C’mon, Sam. Stop vacation-blocking me.” Dean opens the driver’s side door and stands with one foot up on the car, leaning on his forearms against the roof. From the other side of the car, Sam mirrors him. The harsh artificial light of the parking lot paints stark bands of light and shadow across his face. Dean pushes down on the car, gently rocking it up and down. He flashes his cajoling, make-Sammy-smile grin. “It’ll be fun. Tara said we could stay at her friend’s condo in Malibu. She’s on location somewhere and not using it.” 

Sam’s eyes narrow and his eyebrows draw together as he rides the bounce of the Impala. “Tara said?” he echoes.

“Yeah, you know, when I was talking to her.”

“Talking.” Voice flat. Eyes flat. Mouth a straight line. 

That expression one Dean knows. Sam’s mad. “Yeah, talking.”

“When you were in her trailer.” His eyes glitter dark in the streetlights, some kind of challenge in them that Dean doesn’t want to look at too closely right now.

“Yes. In her trailer.” Fuck it, Sam knows what they were doing. Dean can’t hide it. Isn’t sure why he feels he should. He stretches his arms out across the roof, reaching for Sam’s hand. Sam looks down at Dean’s hand and back up, eyebrows raised, but his hand creeps forward. “You see, Sam, when a man and woman like each other very much-“

“Funny, Dean.” Sam’s back is rigid as he turns away and Dean knows he’s two seconds away from a tense car ride spent trying to figure out what crawled up Sam’s ass this time. Not really what he wants. Jumping both feet up on the car, he reaches across the roof and grabs Sam’s hand, holding him in place. Sam sighs. Even in the shadows, Dean can make out the bitchface. He grins. Bitchface is better than stone face. 

“When a man and a woman like each other very much, sometimes, after they fuck, they talk.”

Sam yanks his hand away. “Fuck you, Dean.” He turns and slides slid into the car, slamming the door. Dean slides down and into the driver’s seat. “You see, Sam, that’s our problem. We never talk anymore.”

Sam turns to him and Dean thinks that Sam must have added to his silent vocabulary during those years they were apart, expressions and gestures and breaths that Dean can’t translate. “Do you want to talk?” Sam asks with no inflection, and Dean doesn’t know if yes or no is the right answer. He drapes his left arm over the steering wheel, twisting his whole body towards Sam. It’s almost there, the meaning Dean is looking for, in the slight downturn of Sam’s eyes, the oh-so-slight pout of his lower lip. He matches them to all the old Sam expressions, layering them on top of this new, older, sadder Sam. He thinks he might know. Buy himself some time, he motions for Sam to hand over the box of cassette tapes. Not taking his eyes off Dean, Sam reaches down and pulls the box out from the under the seat and hands it over.

Dean flicks through them quickly, pulling out the one he knows is Sam’s favorite. Sam exhales noisily, and Dean smiles to himself where Sam can’t see as he slots the tape into the deck. That he knows, exasperated exhales constitute the majority of Sam’s conversations with Dean. “So,” Sam asks, still keeping his voice flat and even. “Do you?”

“No.” 

Sam snorts sarcastically, turning away from Dean. 

Dean starts the car and the tape whirls to life, soft guitar music filling the space.

_Chewing on a piece of grass Walking down the road_

Sam looks over at Dean, his face so open, and Dean can read everything. Sam looks so vulnerable, like everything has been taken from him and he didn’t expect even this small of a kindness anymore. It’s like a fist to Dean’s solar plexus, like jumping into ice-cold water, and he can’t breathe for a second. 

_Tell me, how long you gonna stay here, Joe? Some people say this town don't look good in snow You don't care, I know._

“Hey,” he whispers, and slides across the seat, reaching out, gathering Sam to his chest as he does. Sam’s hair is soft under his hand as he gently, oh so gently, kisses him. It’s not their first kiss, but it might as well be. It’s never been like this. Their kisses have been hard, open-mouthed, extensions of the lust and tension that had built up over the long years of their adolescence. This is love and comfort and two boys huddled on a motel bed waiting (hoping, praying) for their dad to come back from fighting monsters in the dark. This is it’s going to be okay, Sammy and dad will be home soon, Dee. Sam’s lips are soft under Dean’s, and his hand rubs up and down on the worn denim of Dean’s jeans. 

Dean pulls back with a final kiss, keeping one hand flat on Sam’s chest. “I don’t want to talk _now_. Now I just want to drive. Is that okay?” He searches his brother’s face for assurance that Sam understands him, feels Sam’s rapid heartbeat under his hand. This language of kissing and touch and truth is new to both of them. He wants to say these new things slowly and loudly and clearly. 

"Yeah,” Sam nods quickly, hand going up to touch his lips. Dean not sure he knows he’s doing it, Sam’s eyes look a little glazed. Dean can’t help but feel a little smug as he pulls out of the parking lot. Kisses from Dean Winchester often have that effect on people. If he’d have known it would work on his little brother, he would have been kissing the brat out of Sam years ago. 

“And when I say talk, I mean you’re going to talk, too,” he says. “Not this crap where you whine at me and say ‘Dean, we have to talk about this’ and I end up doing all the talking.” 

Sam leans his head against the window. “Yeah, okay. I’ll talk, too.” He nods and settles back against the seat where he’s spent so much of his life. 

“Well, good. Awesome. ‘Cause you totally do that.” He points a finger accusingly at Sam. “Something about you, Sam.” he says, shaking his head. “Makes me spill my guts like a twelve-year-old girl with a brand new diary. And you get to be all silent, and mysterious, and brooding.” 

Sam’s mouth twists. “I don’t brood.” 

“Oh, you brood. Like…” Dean smoothly switches lanes as he searches for the word. “Like a chicken on a nest.” 

Sam burst out laughing. Dean smacks him. “Shut up.” 

Dean points the Impala east down Ventura, cruising in stops and starts all the way to Cahuenga, because he wants the full Mulholland experience. The headlights illuminate the scrub brush and bare rock of the canyon walls as they wind up through Griffith Park. The Impala was made to cruise down Mulholland Drive, a black shape, gliding around the curves with a growl, sliding past the yellow glow of houses hidden down almost-invisible driveways that have obviously never been touched by ice or snow. 

“Might be nice to do this in the day,” Sam says quietly. Dean looks down at the sea of lights stretching away to the South. “I like the night.” Twenty minutes into the drive and Dean’s already calmer. He stretches his arm across the back of the seat, running his finger through Sam’s hair, burrowing underneath to feel the warmth of his skin. 

Up ahead, Dean can see a wide dirt patch off to the right. It overlooks the view of the San Fernando Valley, not the city. People driving up from the valley to catch a view of promised land don’t want to look at what they hope to leave, so they have the space to themselves. Dean turns the Impala and cruises to a stop. When he kills the engine, the sudden silence rings in their ears. They can hear the hum of the light traffic behind them, and, surprisingly the shrill cries of tree frogs. Off to the Northwest, the neon grid below them is cut off abruptly by the jagged dark line of the San Gabriel Mountains. Many a lonely, vengeful ghost haunts those mountains and forests, Dean knows. Hunting has taken them in to the Angeles National Forest before and will take them their again, he’s sure. The area was a dumping ground for dead bodies and a magnet for wanna-be-Satanists and their ilk. Mostly it was kids, like the three idiots in white robes and black masks sitting around chalked pentagrams with a sword, a jar of goat's blood, and a severed owl's wing chanting at the moon. They’d never noticed Sam and Dean, never realized how close to death they came that night. 

Dean turns his back to the door, stretching his legs across the seat and into Sam’s lap. Sam just shift a little, rubs Dean’s calves, waiting for Dean to break the silence. If he stretches his head back out the open window, Dean can see the sky, light pollution painting the sky in shades of gray rather than the true black of the isolated areas. The breeze ruffles his hair, tickles the tops of his ears and slides down his neck. “S-s-s-s-oooo,” he starts, glancing down his nose at Sam without lifting his head. “Truth or dare?” 

Sam rubs his nose, slips the fingers of his other hand up under the cuff of Dean’s jeans. They’re cool against his skin because Sam likes to drive with his hand out the window, riding the air currents up and down. “Truth,” he answers, not looking at Dean. Truth is always easier when you’re not looking at each other.

A thousand questions flood Dean’s mind. _Did you miss me at Stanford? Are you with me because you have no other choice? Will you leave me again when we kill this demon? Can you feel the demon blood in you? Will you forgive me when I can’t do what Dad and you both asked me to do?_ What he asks is “Why haven’t you touched me since Madison?” 

Sam’s hand tightens briefly on Dean’s leg, then slides down, circling his ankle, fingertips tracing around the hill of bone. “I’m touching you right now.” 

Dean lifts his head up to give Sam a look, but Sam is watching his fingers slide up and down Dean’s Achilles tendon. Bending his knee, Dean nudges against the inside of Sam’s thigh. Sam rolls his head against the tension Dean can see tightening his shoulders. He lifts his hands in an almost-shrug, moving them like he’s trying to shape an answer out of the air, like he can draw the words in the space between them. “It’s not too late to take the dare,” Dean jokes, when the silence stretches brittle between them. 

Sam shakes his head. “No. No. It’s…just,” he inhales, turns to look at Dean. “It’s – I killed her. She was a … a monster,” he rushes through the word, “and was going to kill people and we had to kill her. I had to kill her.” 

Dean runs his hand across his face. It was a stupid question. God, what was he thinking? “No, yeah. I mean, I get it – “ 

“No. Dean. Let me, just let me get this out. I slept – I was with her and then, then I had to kill her. And, it was awful.” And Dean is so grateful for the darkness in the car and around him, because he is almost sure he can see tears glinting in Sam’s eyes but they can pretend he can’t. 

“God, Sam. I’m sorry –“ 

Sam latches onto Dean’s knees with both hands, his grip so tight it almost hurts, and leans forward across the car, close to Dean’s face. And Dean can’t pretend to not see the tears anymore. “All I keep thinking, every time I want you,” Sam’s hands lift, hover over Dean’s body like he wants to touch, to feel, but doesn’t dare. “Every time I think about being with you, I think ‘one morning he’s going to have to get out of our bed and kill me.’ And I – I can’t Dean. I can’t ask you to do that.” 

There’s no air coming into Dean’s lungs. Sam’s words have knocked the air out of him better than any fist or fall. All he can do is grab Sam’s hands and pull them tight against his chest, dragging Sam across his body. With a thin hiss through his clenched jaw, he manages to suck in some oxygen, and he fists one hand into Sam’s hair. He gasps as his muscles unlock and he lifts Sam’s head up from where he is trying to bury it in Dean’s body. A few silky strands pull out as he forces Sam to look at him. 

“That’s not fucking happening.” His eyes are hard and he can feel his teeth grinding together as he pushes the words out. “Do you hear me?” 

Sam doesn’t try to pull away and Dean can’t handle the sadness and forgiveness and fucking understanding in his eyes right now. “Dean, Dad said- “ 

“Fuck Dad.” Dean pushes against Sam’s chest with one hand and yanks his head further back with the other until their faces are inches apart and he slams his mouth on Sam’s as if he can suck those words right out of his little brother’s mouth. They’re both gasping for air when he pulls back. “Fuck Dad. Fuck that yellow-eyed bastard. And fuck you if you think I’m ever going to do that.” 

Sam braces his hands on Dean’s chest and lifts himself up just a couple of inches. The position presses his hips down into Dean and Dean can feel Sam’s erection pressing into his own. They’re both so hard, so quick. It’s always like this with them. Always. Dean’s so gentle with girls. It’s sweet and nice. But this, Sam pulls everything from Dean’s center, everything, from the core of his being is Sams’s. And Sam is panting into Dean’s skin, painting the image of his fate over Dean. “You might have to. Dean, you might have to.” 

Dean shakes his head. “I won’t have to. I’m gonna save you, Sam. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you. Ever.” Sam surges down onto Dean’s body and all he can feel is Sam everywhere. His mouth slams against Dean’s, forcing it open on a gasp. Sam lays claim to Dean’s mouth, his hand grabbing and sliding and running anywhere they can reach. It’s too tight in the front seat, too close quarters, but Sam’s hips are sliding and slamming into Dean’s over and over, one of his feet braced against the door, the other on the floor and his strong thighs just keep riding Dean until he thinks he’s going to lose his mind. Sam’s mouth trails across Dean’s jaw, nipping and licking and suckling until he latches onto Dean’s shoulder. Dean yells at the bite, and almost comes right then, hand clutching convulsively at Sam’s ass and the back of the seat. “Fuck. Fucking Christ, Sammy!” 

Sam pulls back, looks wildly at Dean, pupils eaten up all but a ring of his multicolored eyes. “Dean, dean, promise me. Promise me.” 

“I promise.” 

Sam’s head shakes so fiercely, sweat flies off. “No. Promise me you’ll save me. And if you don’t, then you’ll kill me.” 

Dean grabs Sam’s head stilling it. “So help me god, Sammy. If I have to kill you, the second bullet is going right into my brain while your heart is still beating.” Sam freezes completely motionless over Dean. Dean’s chest heaves along with Sam’s as they catch their breath. Sam is silently saying no and no over and over. “Yes, Sam, yes. I won’t live without you. But you know what?” He slides his hands up Sam’s back, gently this time, softly maneuvering Sam’s head so he can whisper in his ear. “Truth or Dare?” 

“Truth,” Sam whispers back. 

Dean licks over the edges of his brother’s ear, bites gently to feel him shudder all down his body. “I would let you lead the armies of hell as long as you took me with you.” 

With a helpless groan, Sam rears up as much as the ceiling will let him. He reaches back, fumbling with the door handle. The door flies open and Sam crawls backwards out of the car, dragging Dean by his legs until his knees hang over the edge of the seat. Sam kneels in the dirt, mumbling curses and Dean, Dean, Dean. When he rips off Dean’s belt and yanks down his zipper, Dean has a flash of gratitude for the boxer briefs standing valiantly between him and zipper burn. Hooking his fingers in the waistband, Sam pulls the jeans roughly down to Dean’s knees. He’s much gentler when he lifts the boxers over Dean’s straining cock. The breeze feels cool against the wet head of Dean’s dick and Dean has a half second to appreciate it before Sam leans forward and swallows him down like he’s getting paid for it. 

“Holy fuck!” Dean is sure his shout echoes across the valley. “Oh. God. Yes.” The feel of it. Sam’s fingers digging deep into the grooves of his hips, keeping him crushed against the seat. Sam’s mouth, hot, wet, perfect. He’s beautiful. Fucking gorgeous. Dean’s hands flail for purchase, grabbing the edge of the door and the back of the seat. Sam shoves his knees apart as far as they will go in the confines of his jeans. He gathers up the spit and precome sliding down Dean’s cock and slides his finger down over Dean’s balls, back into the crease of his ass. Dean moans, head rolling back and forth against the leather seat. Sam’s finger flutters across his opening and the suction on his dick slackens. He feels Sam’s panting breath roll hot down his length. “Oh god. Oh fuck.” Dean rolls his hips to get Sam to push just a bit harder. 

With a deep suck and swirl of tongue that has Dean’s eyes crossing, Sam pulls all the way off. Tendons straining in his neck, Dean lifts his head to try and see what’s going on. But Sam’s finger rubs firmly across Dean’s hole, flicking, swirling, doing everything but pushing in where Dean needs it more than he ever knew he could need it. His thighs tremble against Sam’s shoulder and he can’t hold his head up anymore. 

“God, Dean,” Sam breathes, leaning his head against Dean’s inner thigh. “You’re so- you just – every little touch.” He sounds amazed and Dean has to see. He strains up again and one look at Sam’s face and his orgasm is right there, sparking through his veins, pounding through him like blood from his heart to his heavy cock. Sam’s looking at Dean like Dean’s his whole world. Like he’s everything. Dean exhales a shaky laugh. He knows the feeling. Sam licks a stripe up the inside of Dean’s thigh. “I want to do so many, many things to you.” 

Now _that_ Dean can fully support. Starting now. “Please. Sam.” He can’t look away as Sam pulls his hand out from between Dean’s ass cheeks. Dean’s muscles clench reflexively trying to hold him there, but when Sam sucks his fingers into his mouth, spit dripping down them, Dean forgives him. The sight rips a groan out of Dean and he sucks in a breath as Sam pushes against his thigh, rolling his hips up off the bench seat. Dean grips the seat and window ledge harder as he feels Sam breach that tight muscle. Their moans mingle as Sam pushes in, past the stretch and the burn. Dean wants to roll forward, force Sam in deeper, but he can’t move with Sam’s weight pushing against the backs of his thighs and the tight band of his jeans binding his calves together. All he can do is writhe against the seat and it would almost be embarrassing how badly he needs it but he just doesn’t give a shit right now. And this is Sam. Sam knows what Dean needs. 

strong thrust jams Sam’s fingers against Dean’s prostate, but Sam can’t keep the angle up. It’s not enough and the fucking clothes are in the way and the car door keeps trying to close on Sam and they’re out in public and anyone could drive by and see them and Dean just groans with frustration. It’s too much and not enough and he can’t stop the stream of filth coming out his mouth. 

“Jesus, _fuck_. Sammy, oh my god. So good. So fucking good. Just fuck me already. More, I need more. I can take it.” Stretching out his arms, he braces himself, palms flat against the door and pushes against Sam’s finger, twisting and rolling. “Get your fucking mouth back on me. Now, now. C’mon man, Just suck me. Fuck me. Something. _Please_!” He’s been hard for forever and he might die if he doesn’t get Sam’s mouth back on his dick. 

He almost cries when Sam pulls his finger out and does sob a broken ‘thank god’ when Sam frantically yanks the jeans down his leg and frees one foot. “Fuck, Dean. Gotta…gotta…” Sam grips behind Dean’s knee and pushes him up, up, until his foot rests on the dash. With a show of coordination Dean will remember to praise later, when his brain cells regenerate, Sam splits Dean open with two fingers and swoops down, sucking Dean to the root. 

The sound Dean makes is nowhere near words as one arm slams against the Impala’s roof, giving him something to brace against as his hips fly off the seat. Sam’s fingers burrowing in, his palm slamming against Dean’s balls and dragging across his prostate as they plunge in and out. His mouth is a furnace around Dean’s dick. Dean’s vision is blurring and every muscle in his body pulls tight, tighter, and he is going to last about 0.8 seconds longer. There’s no time for a warning beyond a hoarse shout of “Sammy!” and Dean’s hand flies to the back of Sam’s head, holding him down as he thrusts his cock down his baby brother’s throat and comes and comes and comes. 

When the blackness rolls away from behind his eyelids and he can hear again, Sam is climbing over him, one hand flying up and down his rock-hard cock. “Holy fuck, oh god, Dean, I have to… just let me.” Sam keeps coming until he is straddling Dean’s chest. 

“Yeah, baby. Yeah.” Dean reaches out, grabs Sam’s hips and pulls his cock deep into his mouth. Sam falls forward, hands clenching on the open window sill. And then he is coming in bursts even as Dean feels the velvet-covered steel of him slide over his tongue. The muscles of Sam’s perfect ass clench and release under Dean’s hands and Dean sucks the orgasm out of him until he is a trembling wreck, barely managing to keep himself from collapsing onto Dean’s face. 

It’s not graceful or pretty, but Dean manages to slide out from under Sam and wrangle them both into something close to a sitting position. “Fucking hell, Sam.” Sam laughs weakly from where he’s slumped against Dean’s side. They both struggle to catch their breath, hearts slowing down. 

“You are like an _Olympic_ \- level cocksucker. I don’t even want to know where you learned that.” He ruffles Sam’s hair and it should feel weirder, he supposes, that he remember doing the same thing when Sam learned to tie his shoes, but he also did it when Sam shot his first bullseyes and ganked his first monster, so, really, what did it matter? Who’s to know and who the fuck has the right to tell them they can’t? No one, that’s the fuck who. 

A tinny version of “Back in Black” breaks the companionable silence. Dean realizes two things simultaneously. One, his ass is naked and sticking to the leather of the seat, and two, his jeans are somewhere down on the floorboards. Pulling away from the warmth and comfort of Sam’s body, he bends down with a groan and digs for his phone as the music keeps going, sounding more desperate with every second.  
“Hello?” He doesn’t recognize the number, but when she speaks, he recognizes the voice. “Oh, hi.” 

Sam looks at him, mustering the energy to open one eye. _Tara_ he mouths. Sam tries an eyeroll but he just doesn’t have the energy. Dean elbows him. It’s pathetic, couldn’t hurt a two year old, but it’s the thought that counts. 

“I don’t know. I’m with Sam. Let me ask him.” He moves the phone away from his ear and reaches for Sam’s face. “Hey, Sammy?” 

Sam smiles, “Hmm?” 

Dean leans down and presses his mouth against Sam’s . He nips at Sam’s lips until he opens and then slides his tongue in, licking around Sam’s mouth, tasting his come mixing with Sam’s. Sam groans and Dean sucks his tongue into his mouth, bites gently and pulls away. Sam’s eyes are closed and he looks as happy and relaxed as Dean has ever seen him. “Sam-mee,” he singsongs, combing his fingers through Sam’s hair. “Wanna go to a party?” 

Sam shakes his head no without opening his eyes or losing his smile. “Awesome,” Dean says. He brings the phone back up. “Tara? Still there? Good. Text me the address and some directions. We’re somewhere on Mulholland. We’ll be there.” He hangs up and reaches back down for his jeans. He nudges Sam in the ribs. “Get dressed, Sasquatch. We’re going to a party. Movie stars and swimming pools at last.” 

Sam rolls his head and glares at Dean through slitted eyes. “I hate you.” 

“You love me.” 

“Yeah, I do.” And Sam’s dimples are going to be the death of Dean, one way or the other. 


End file.
